Mummy's Boy
by Madam Mimm
Summary: Sequel to Daddy's Girl. Glen isn't convinced his father and sister are as dead as everyone believes them to be, and takes it upon himself to keep his mother safe.
1. Chapter 1

**AN- Sequel to my previous Child's Play fic, "Daddy's Girl". Summary for those who can't be bothered to read it: Glenda, on breaking her amnesia and remembering who her father was, ran away from Jennifer and Glen. She was killed in a traffic accident and brought back to life by Chucky, in the body of a doll (no surprises there). She wanted to punish her mother for lying, and Chucky was only too happy to oblige. They, through a series of psychological tricks and murders, managed to torment the family, leaving Glen traumatised and injured, and exposing "Jennifer's" secret to her new boyfriend Neil. When the family recuperated in the hospital, they believed Chucky and Glenda to be dead, and so feel safe as they try to pick up the shattered remains of their lives. They are, of course, wrong.**

The darkness swirled around him, enveloping him, shrouding him. He gripped his throat. He couldn't breathe. Shadows loomed over him, long, jagged tendrils smoking towards him, clawing across the floor to snatch at his feet. Glen staggered backwards, whimpering silently as he saw the shadows grasp at his feet.

"Glen."

It was a sharp, stabbing whisper that sliced through the silence like a steel blade. Glen whipped around, his already pale face nearing translucency, and cloaked with a thin layer of sweat. There was silence again.

He looked down at his hands. Except, they weren't his. They were plastic. The hands of a doll.

"Glen!" The voice whispered again, this time accompanied by a high-pitched, dancing giggle. It was a stabbing, twisted laugh that was laden with deceptive menace.

He wanted to call out, to say "who are you?" But he could only stammer.

The shadows clawed at his feet again, and he staggered backwards, falling down in shock as he saw his feet were no longer human, but small, stubby and plastic. He gasped and felt his skin, clutching at his hair, running his hands over his features. He wasn't him anymore. He was a doll.

"Why... why? No! No!" He managed to scream, but the laugh just got louder. "Why is this happening?"

"It's you, Glen!" The voice laughed, as huge silvery orbs formed in the black sky above him, gaining a blue-green hue. They turned into eyes. Large, menacing eyes that stared down at him, shining with glee as the laugh continued. "This is you. Don't deny it! Don't deny us."

"Glenda?" He mumbled, stumbling to his feet, staring up at the eyes, reaching out to them. "Glenda, we thought..."

"Come join us, Glen." The voice, Glenda's voice, giggled again. The darkness suddenly parted, and a simple brushed steel trunk was visible. He felt himself being pulled towards it, even though he didn't want to open it, he didn't want to be near it, but he couldn't pull away. Gingerly, with shaking hands, he reached out to open the trunk. Familiar pressure and warmth began to spread though his abdomen, making him withdraw slightly.

"Glen!" His sister screamed at him, as he felt a harsh force push against him, shocking him. "Open it."

Whimpering, crying, pleading, he felt his arm rise without his consent, the dim light glinting off of the scrubbed pink plastic. He sobbed quietly as, though he tried to resist it, he reached forward and opened the clasps on the trunk.

The lid sprang open.

He flinched.

Nothing.

All was silent.

Quietly, slowly, he looked inside. The trunk was stained with curious, questionable dark brown stains, but empty. Giving a small sigh of relief, he turned away from the trunk.

A screaming mass hit him square in the chest, knocking him backwards into the trunk. Above him, the mass was shrieking and roaring, cackling and crowing. The dim light shone on his father's ice blue eyes and razor sharp knife, as he grinned down at his son.

"That's my boy..." His father's laughter melted with Glenda's, forming one hideous mess of shrill noise as the lid of the trunk fell shut, encasing Glen in darkness.

"No! No, let me out!" He screamed. "Let me out! Help!"

He woke with a start, bolt upright, gasping for breath. The walls of his room were still, and veiled with a pre-dawn tinge of dusty grey. His sheets were cold, and wet. His face and throat stung. The curtains hung completely still, the windows were closed. The door creaked open.

"Honey?" A familiar face, worn with concern, appeared in the doorway, face framed with dark hair. "Are you ok?"

"I... bad... dream..." Glen whispered, before breaking down in tears. Jennifer rushed to him, hugging him tight and soothing him. She ran her hands through his curly red hair, kissing his forehead.

"Mommy's here, mommy's here. It's ok..."

They slowly rocked backwards and forwards on his bed, in the silent night, until Glen felt more at ease. It had been a little over a year since they had been dragged through hell and back by Chucky and Glenda. It had been a little over a year since Glen had seen his father and sister killed in front of him. He still had nightmares.

It broke Jennifer's heart to see him, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, crying into her shoulder every other night. It broke her heart just as much to see Neil adapting to his new life, limited to a wheel chair, his legs paralysed. It broke her heart because she could only see these events as her fault. Chucky had returned to her to name and shame, to expose her secret. Glenda had wanted revenge; because she had felt lied to. Jennifer had not been born Jennifer Tilly. She had been born Tiffany Carlisle, and had married to become Tiffany Ray. She had lied, and kept secrets from her own family. She had killed and robbed. She had cheated and threatened. But now she was Jennifer, and now she had moved on with her life.

"Kirsten, get back!" One of the black-clad figures blurted out, as the supposed well-oiled team of the LAPD surrounded a firmly locked and possibly barricaded door. Her eyes narrowed, although this wasn't visible behind her visor.

"Officer Martel, you will refer to me as Lieutenant while we are on duty, and act with the correct decorum."

With that hissed warning, they resumed their appointed task.

The door splintered off of its hinges as they forced through the locking mechanism, and the several boxes and pieces of furniture were promptly rammed several feet back into the room. The smell, which had alerted the small apartment's neighbours intensified as they entered the room, causing several officers to recoil and gag. The Lieutenant wrinkled her nose, but gritted her teeth and signalled that they continue into the apartment.

The main room was dark, with the curtains tightly drawn. The furniture had been moved roughly, and food containers festered on the floor. The room reeked of old food, mildew, sweat... and blood.

"What in all..."

One of the officers ran from the apartment, retching and tugging desperately at his visor.

"Lieutenant..." The torchlight shone on the rotten, bloodied lump that had once been a cat. It lay splayed and scattered on the floor, its intestines caked in dry blood a few feet from the corpse itself. More hideous, however, was the trail of dried blood and bile that lead from the corpse, painting the dusty floorboards with odd symbols and pictures.

"Look!" One of the officers hissed, pointing their torches at another pile of animal intestines, next to corpses of dogs and birds, the buzzing of flies suddenly becoming prominent. The Lieutenant shone her torch across the floor, noting that there were yet more crude stick symbols painted over the floor, accompanied by burnt out candles and small piles of ash.

"Shit..." The Lieutenant sighed, glad that no one could see her flustered expression behind her visor. "Ok... do a full search, see if there's any sign of recent inhabitation... see if we can get forensics down here."

"What is it, Lieutenant?" The officers were hesitant. "Have you ever seen anything like this before?"

The Lieutenant sighed.

"It's voodoo... I have to get out of here; the smell is making me sick."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Search the whole apartment; I want a full report of all findings on my desk by tomorrow morning. I need to go."

"Yes, Ma'am."

The Lieutenant left the building, her eyes weary, the foul stench clinging to her hair and skin. That was one of the more sickening things she'd seen in recent years. And yet, she wasn't surprised. The officers could take care of the forensics team. Lieutenant Kirsten Barclay had a long day that had ended in something very much like a nightmare she didn't want to go back to. She wanted to go home.

"Are you sure you want to go to school today, sweetface?" Jennifer's face was fraught with worry. Glen smiled weakly, in an attempt to assuage her fears, but this only made him look feebler.

"I'm fine, Mummy."

"You do look a little sickly." Neil nodded, turning from the table. "Maybe a day off would do you some good..."

"No, really." Glen insisted, grabbing his lunch and stuffing it into his back pack. "I feel safe at school. I'm happy there."

"Neil..." Jennifer implored. Many people had said many things about her, over the years, but no one could question how much she cared about her son. Neil looked from mother to son, weighing the arguments, seated in a wheelchair throne and pinstriped suit, like some sort of executive Solomon. After a pause, in which both Tillys held their breath, he spoke.

"Let him go. If he stays here, you'll only be worrying each other all day anyway."

Glen beamed, hugging Neil with such force that he rolled backwards slightly. Jennifer rolled her eyes, but hugged and kissed her son goodbye. As the door closed, she found herself alone in the kitchen with Neil.

They had moved house, after that night. None of them could stand being in the old house; their old kitchen could now only ever be seen as a torture room, they would never quite forget the bloodstains on the living room floor, regardless of how much it was cleaned. And Glenda's room...

Jennifer shivered, feeling herself tense just at the memory of the savage glint in her daughter's eyes.

To have your own child stare at you with such unseeing, burning hatred...

She and Neil had barely been alone since that night. They were still together, by some miracle, although it was now more because he needed supervision. He was still getting used to being restricted to his wheelchair, and the bones and muscles in his hands were still healing. He needed help with even the most mundane of tasks, and Jennifer felt it her duty to help him. Not that her feeling duty bound helped to rebuild the relationship at all; if anything it caused more awkward silence than any argument they'd ever had.

"Jennifer?"

Neil's voice dragged her out of her thoughts, and she started, guiltily.

"What's the matter?"

"Oh... nothing..." She smiled, aiming for "breezy" but hitting "over-compensating" instead.

"Jennifer, if you want to talk about what happened..."

"No." There was a sudden edge to her voice, and a spark in her eye. The pause that followed was tense, before she exhaled, her eyelids fluttering. "No... Sorry... I just... I'm not ready, yet."

Neil looked as though he wanted to continue the conversation, but seemed to think better of it. He looked up at the kitchen clock, and sighed.

"Could you help me get ready for my physical therapy?"

"Oh, sure, of course..." She stood aside, letting him leave the kitchen, before following him. She bit her lip, holding back unwanted thoughts; she had to stay positive, or nothing would get better.


	2. Chapter 2

Glen stifled a yawn as his teacher continued to drone from her position at the front of the class. He normally enjoyed English. He enjoyed all of his lessons, except Phys. Ed. But today, he was really too tired to focus. Maybe his mother had been right to worry; maybe he should have stayed home.

His shoulders ached as he slumped over his desk, his eyes heavy. He shook his head, he pinched his arm, and he even rested his head on his hand, digging his nails into his cheek in flagging attempts to wake himself up. He felt his elbow losing its traction on the desk, slowly slipping as his entire body sagged with the weight of sleep.

_She's still talking. She's taking forever..._

He dragged his eyes up to watch the teacher, who seemed to actually be slowing down as she spoke, and blinked lethargically. Her hand movements became slower, and her monotonic voice seemed to drag on, like someone had switched the speed right down.

Glen blinked again.

He looked around the classroom.

Everyone was moving in slow-motion, seemingly ignoring him.

Cautiously, he raised his hand, and then waved it in the air.  
>"Miss? Miss, what's going on?"<p>

The teacher didn't answer him, or even look at him. The slow drone of her voice cut out all together, replaced with the thudding beat of his own heart.

"Learning from history..." a horrifyingly familiar voice cut through the silence, making Glen jump. Chucky strolled through the rows of desks, walking from the back to the front of the class, reading off the board. "Poems of the civil war... psh. Like that's ever going to be useful."

"D... Dad?" Glen shook, yelping and shrinking back into his seat as his father turned his ice-blue eyes on him.

"You really want to be here, kid?" Chucky sneered, climbing up onto his teacher's desk. "What good is any of this going to do you?"

"What... what are you doing here?"

"What, I can't pay my own kid a visit?" He laughed, his face just as twisted and gnarled as Glen remembered; the soft plastic gleaming in the harsh electric lights. "So come on, let's blow this joint."

"No! I... you're dead!"

"Nerd!" Glenda's voice barked from behind him, accompanied by her manic giggle. He spun around, and came face to face with the doll that currently housed his sister. She looked different to how he remembered... he wasn't surprised. He suppressed a shudder, deciding he didn't really want to remember Glenda the way he knew he'd always have to; flush draining from her pale plastic cheeks, spit hanging from her jaw, eyes rolling back into her head as blood spewed forth from the point of impact where he drove a screwdriver into her skull. He'd never be able to forget it...

But now, she was taller, her hair in bunches of deep red, almost purple ringlets, brown freckles gracing her high cheekbones... but her eyes were the same. They were large, blue-green eyes that shone with a constant malice.

"He won't come with us, Daddy..." She chuckled, her voice the same high-pitched, hoarse whisper it had always been. "He _likes_ being in school. He's not fun."

"Don't sweat it, Glenda." Chucky grinned, standing on the teacher's desk and leaning on her shoulder, seeming disconcertingly casual. "He'll end up as one of us, sooner or later." They both started laughing, making Glen flinch again. He looked from one to the other, startled as they both giggled and cackled. It was a horrible, grainy noise, which scared Glen more than any threat or curse.

"I... I won't." Glen tried to be loud and defiant, but his voice wobbled, and he failed to meet his father's eyes. The fact that he spoke out at all made them stop laughing, though. He took a deep breath and tried again, forcing his voice to stay level.

"I won't be like either of you. I'm... I'm a good boy, I work hard at school and I help look after Mummy and Neil. I... I help people. I don't like hurting people."

"Oh..." Glenda gasped, her eyes shining with that sadistic gleam as she walked around to the front of the class. She was almost skipping. "Daddy! Glen's telling lies!"

"I know." Chucky smiled, his voice ominously dark. His eyes were fixed on Glen, like he was trying to stare straight through into his brain. "He thinks he's... better than us." Chucky spoke slowly, and with a sense of determination. Glen wasn't sure if he was amused or angry. It was like his father was toying with him, standing up there and just trying to exude some form of power. Glen tried to sit up straight and seem flippant, but he couldn't deny that he was terrified just by his father's presence.

"But I know he's a killer. He killed me."

Glen felt heat build in his cheeks, clawing behind his eyes. He bit his lip as he tried to struggle against the tears. He tried to get up, to run away, but he couldn't move out of his seat. It was like he was stuck to it, and the more he struggled, the more stuck he felt. He stared down at his lap, fat, wet tears rolling down his Elvin nose, spurred on by the sound of Glenda's stifled laugh coming from somewhere in front of him.

"He killed me..." Chucky's voice was little more than a whisper now, but Glen could still hear it carrying the same vicious glint that shone constantly in those cold blue eyes. "And he liked it."

"No!" Glen's head shot up, more pleading than denying, his eyes bloodshot and wet as tears continued to run down his pasty white cheeks. "No, it... it's not true!"

"Oh! He's lying again, Daddy, he's lying!" Glenda was practically dancing on the spot, trying to reign in her excitement. Chucky shot her a wry smile, and she seemed content that she had been listened to. She turned to Glen, instead.

"You'll love it, Glen. Finally admitting all that anger, all that emotion..." She grinned, sending shivers down Glen's spine. "You're going to be one of us, sooner or later. I'm a killer, Dad's a killer, and so was his dad... It's like genetics!"

"No!" Glen spat, struggling some more, renewing his resolution to get out of there. "I'm not like you. I won't ever be like you!"

"You sure, Glen?" Chucky laughed, moving closer to the teacher, pulling out a knife from his overall pocket and pressing it against her throat. "You sure you wouldn't like to be up here, holding this bitch hostage?"

Glen's eyes grew wide.

"Please... don't..."

"Just think about it. All those poor homework grades, those unfair pop quizzes." The light reflected off of the knife with the same terrible gleam as the one that sparkled in Chucky's grin. "Bitch would never cross you again."

"No..." Glen's throat ached as he stifled sob after sob, too tense and scared to let himself cry. He could only whisper, "Please..."

"And it's so easy, Glen." Chucky continued, speaking with the same measured patience as if he was teaching Glen how to ride a bike or hit a golf ball. "You just find your reason, your motivation. And you focus on it. And then..." He looked up, making sure Glen was watching. Glen felt like his spine had been put in a vice; he couldn't look away, no matter how much he wanted to.

"Then it's just a matter of finding the vein." And with that, the knife slid across the teacher's throat, slitting it from her left ear to her right, blood bubbling out of her and drenching her clothes before pooling on the floor, quickly followed by the rest of her crumpled body. Glen bit back another sob as he heard his teacher making choking gasps from where she lay, barely moving.

"Or what about her?"

Glen's head snapped around to see Glenda, two desks to his right, sat on the desk of a young girl named Clarissa he often spoke to.

"Please, stop..."

"She always was snooty, wasn't she, Glen?" Glenda gave another savage smile, like a cat that had cornered it's prey. "She'd be fine if you could do her homework for her, but as soon as she had what she wanted, she didn't care any more, right?" Her smile grew wider. "Not a real friend. And think about how easy it is."

So saying, Glenda produced a length of thin wire from her pocket, and in one swift movement she wrapped it around Clarissa's neck and pulled it tight. Clarissa emitted a few strangled gasps before slumping in her chair, Glenda breathing heavily as she regained her composure.

"You could kill them, kid." Chucky was stood on a desk at the front of the class, five or so in front of Glen. He slashed the neck of the child sat at the desk, who Glen knew as James. James fell to the floor, screaming and whimpering, and shaking as his blood pooled around him, seeping into the carpet. Glen screamed, trying yet again to pull himself free of the chair, but he was stuck fast. Glenda started laughing again, and followed her father's lead. She pulled her own knife from it's sheath in her knee-high sock, and slashed the throat of another one of Glen's classmates. It was Tyler's turn to slump, gasping and gibbering, onto the floor. Chucky and Glenda both moved to the next desk on, driving their knives into their next victims.

Glen continued to struggle, tears rolling down his face, screaming. All he wanted to do was stop the horrible sounds of his classmates slowly sputtering and dying, while Glenda continued her manic laughter. Chucky, however, seemed perfectly calm and in control. He stepped from desk to desk, sending child after child to the floor.

"You think you're safe because you're a kid." His voice was horrifyingly quiet; a whisper that somehow managed to carry over the whimpers and screams of his fallen classmates. To emphasise his point, Chucky sliced another kid's neck and moved onto the desk in front of Glen.

"You're one of us, Glen. And sooner or later, blood's gonna out." He stabbed the child in front of Glen, driving the knife downward between neck and shoulder, sending blood spurting over both of them.

Glen kept struggling against his invisible bonds, staring up at his father, unable to tear his eyes away, all the while pushing out desperate murmurs.

"No... no, no, no... please, don't... don't do this... stop it, please... I can't, I'm not like you..."

"You know as well as I do, I could kill every kid in this class, no problem. Glenda wouldn't need half a chance. Your mother would have, too, before she started lying to the world."

"No..."

"Yes. Glen, I'm a killer. Your sister's a killer. We're scum of the earth, and that scum includes you and your mother. This is a warning, Glen. If you're..."

"No!"

Glen screamed, finally managing to pull himself free of his invisible bonds, and falling heavily to the floor.

Glen stumbled to his feet, still screaming and casting around, slowly shrinking under the collective gaze of his class.

"Glen? Are you alright?"

He looked around. His teacher stood at the front of the class, giving him a curious, concerned look.

_A dream... just a dream..._

But it had felt so real.

Glen looked around, seeing no sign of the dolls. All of his classmates were present, accounted for, and alive.

They were also staring at him, some laughing, sneering, others more concerned. He must not look very well.

_I don't feel too well either._

The world lurched sickeningly to one side, and Glen did little to fight it, grateful to slump to the floor and black out, in hopes he'd forget some of the horrible visions that were still burned into his brain.

Glen blinked awake in the nurse's office, the dim electric light casting a sickly haze over everything. Or maybe that was just his eyesight.

"How are you?" The nurse cooed, crouching down next to him. She was a pretty woman, who smelled of cosmetics and soap. She had red hair, flecked with grey, which curled and bobbed around her shoulders. She smiled her sympathetic smile at him, dabbing at his forehead with a damp wipe.

"I... uh... What happened?"

"You passed out, sweetie." The nurse stood up, giving him another sympathetic smile, and walked back over to her desk. It was a small, square room, covered in motivational posters and medical leaflets.

"We didn't call your mother; it seems like you were just a little over-tired. Have you been sleeping well lately?"

"No." Glen admitted, struggling to sit up. "I've been having... bad dreams."

"Do you want to call your mother now?"

"No, no." Glen started, causing the nurse to raise her eyebrows at him. He recovered, smiling nervously. "She, uh... she'd only worry."

"Well, aren't you a sweet little thing. I'll tell you what..." She spun around, scribbling out a note on a piece of paper, before taking a small plastic bag out of the desk drawer. "Take this note, and this little bag, and go to the cafeteria. Give it to one of the cafeteria workers; they'll sort you out." She smiled again, helping him to his feet.

"I have trouble sleeping myself. The bag is a little kit I have to relax myself."

"Thank you..."

"You're still looking a little faint though." The nurse scrutinised him. After a moment, she smiled. "Karen?"

A girl, a little older than Glen, walked through from outside the office. She had her arm in a cast, and carried a couple of books. She smiled sheepishly at him.

"Karen, can you take Glen here to the cafeteria, just to make sure he's ok?"

"Yes, miss." Karen smiled, before looking expectantly at Glen. Glen smiled nervously back, and stumbled to his feet, following her out of the nurse's office. She had long, light brown hair, which had a slight lazy curl to it. She was skinny and athletic, and was tall, about three inches taller than Glen.

"Glen. You're in fourth grade, right?"  
>"Fifth." Glen clutched the small plastic bag nervously. "You?"<p>

"Sixth. Must explain why I've never seen you before. So what were you in the nurse's office for?"

"I... um... passed out in class."

"No way!" Karen gasped, delighted. "That was you? Wow, you had everyone worried for a moment there. So are you ok now?"

"I... still feel a bit funny, but I'm ok."

"Here, let me take that stuff to the cafeteria lady." She smiled as she took the bag and the note off of him. Glen sat down gratefully, sinking onto the cafeteria bench. Karen seemed nice enough, which was good. He checked his watch, seeing that there was a half hour until everyone else would be eating lunch. He had a little time to enjoy his lunch quietly, and calm down.

His thoughts returned to his dream. It had been a dream, of course. But it was terrifying.

He had been dreaming about Chucky and Glenda for a while now, and the dreams seemed more real and more horrifying each time. But today...

He'd never had such a realistic dream in his life.

He shuddered, trying to suppress the memory of his father's terrible eyes, and Glenda's twisted laugh.

That was another thing.

_Glenda..._

He'd had a very hard time dealing with her death, but not in the same way his mother had. His mother had cried and mourned, as you would expect any mother to do at the death of their child. But Glen hadn't He had been sad, but at times he had to remind himself that she had died. He felt... he almost couldn't comprehend that she was dead. He couldn't explain it to anyone, other than saying that he just... didn't feel like she was.

"Glen?"

He jumped when Karen returned to the table, with a polystyrene cup of what looked like tea, a sandwich and a smoothie.

"Here's the stuff the nurse gave you. I think its chamomile tea."

Glen smiled.

"I've never had that before." He tried it, sipping carefully at the hot liquid. It did relax him slightly.

"Is it nice?"

"It's... flowery."

"Blegh." Karen sniffed. "I don't like tea." So saying, she produced a bottle of water from her bag and drank from it, resting her injured arm on the table.

"Is it... broken?" Glen nodded towards her arm, his pinched expression trying for a smile. Karen nodded.

"Yeah. Only a small break though. I was trying dad's old gym equipment and I... I fell funny."

"Your dad has his own gym?"

"He's..." She stopped, glancing down at the table. "He... was... in the army. But he died."

"Oh, gosh, I'm sorry." Glen gasped. Karen shook her head.

"It's ok. I'm still getting used to it."

"I know what you mean." Glen nodded. Then, before he really thought about what he was saying, he said "My father... and my sister... both died recently."

"Woah." Karen raised her eyebrows.

"You just... A part of me keeps..."

"Forgetting?" Karen suggested. Glen nodded. Karen smiled.

"I'm sitting out of gym class right now. Mind if I have lunch with you?"

"Sure." Glen smiled. He liked Karen. He felt they had a lot in common.


	3. Chapter 3

"So... what was your dad like?" Karen smiled at Glen. The sun shone through the cafeteria window, accentuating her athletic tan and brown eyes, and making Glen very conscious of his deathly pale skin.

"Um..."

She was trying to be nice. She was trying to strike up conversation. The least he could do is try talking to her.

"We... we didn't see him very much." Glen chose his words carefully. He knew he couldn't say much about his father. "He and my mother split up when I was very little."

"Oh... I'm sorry."

"That's ok, I... I didn't like him very much. My sister loved him though."

"Do you have any other brothers or sisters?"

"No, just... just Glenda."

"Oh, god, I'm sorry... again." Karen grimaced and blushed. "I'm just hitting every conversational landmine, aren't I?"

"No, no, it's alright." Glen smiled, weakly. "I don't mind talking about it. But... what about you, do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"Yup." She nodded. "Andrew, he's older than me, and Maggie. She's two years younger than me."

"Wow. That must be fun."

She laughed. Glen smiled, feeling instantly more at ease.

"Yeah, Mum calls us her platoon. Between the three of us, and Grammy and..." She stopped herself, her smile faltering for a moment. She shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. "We're a busy house."

Glen and Karen sat and talked throughout lunch, and resolved that they would eat lunch together tomorrow as well. They found they had a lot in common, and Glen felt like maybe he'd finally found a friend he could count on. Karen just felt like she'd found someone who wouldn't ask too many questions about her Dad.

The place was a mess. Shop-front broken into, the till cracked open, and merchandise strewn everywhere. And as for the owner...

Faceless forensics picked their way through the scene, noting the manner in which his face had contorted, the angle of the serrated kitchen knife sticking out of his chest, and the length of the wound that stretched from ribcage to groin, spewing his innards across the blue-flecked lino. They noted that he had been stabbed in the neck twice, but only after the chest wound had been made.

"I don't know why anyone would want to rob a comic store." The head forensic turned to the Lieutenant overseeing operations. "They couldn't have gotten much money."

"Maybe they got some merchandise." The Lieutenant sighed. "Figurines, comic books... they can get a pretty high resale... no security cameras?"

"No. Large amounts of marijuana under the counter though..."

"Look into it. You don't need me here, do you?"

"No, it seems pretty standard."

"Fair enough. Good night."

The Lieutenant left the shop, ducked under the crime scene tape, and got into her car. She was sure that few, if any, would care. It was a good shop, if you were looking for comics or film merchandise, but in a bad neighbourhood. The amount of strip clubs and dodgy bars around that area, she'd have been surprised if it wasn't to do with drugs. She drove in silence, her headlights picking out her way home. All she wanted right now was sleep.

When she pulled up outside the modest suburban house, she noticed that the downstairs lights were still on. She checked the clock, and made up her mind that if any of her children were still up this late on a school night, the consequences would be severe. Kicking open the car door, she let herself into the house, noting the four figures around the table.

"Maggie. Andrew, Karen. What are you still doing up?"

"I wasn't tired." Maggie was the first to speak, her mouse-blonde hair curling around her face, lending her dark brown eyes an adorable quality. "I wanted some warm milk." She was a small child, and the doll she held in her arms was only slightly smaller, his own angelic expression matching hers perfectly.

"So I came down to help her." Karen cut in, noting the tired and less than amused scowl on her mother's face. "And now she's had her warm milk so we're going back upstairs to bed. Aren't we, Maggie?"

Maggie looked confused for a moment, but cottoned on pretty quickly, nodding dramatically.

"If you want to yell at someone, Andrew was the one who was staying up late to watch TV!" Karen finished, hoping to deflect her mother's death glare. Andrew sat bolt upright, glaring at his sister.

"No I wasn't! You snitch!"

Karen grabbed Maggie's wrist, and they both ran upstairs giggling, leaving the scruffy-haired doll on the table. Andrew bowed his head apologetically towards his mother, before mumbling something about how tired he was and slinking off to his room. Kirsten sighed, sitting down at the table. She picked up the doll, hugging it to her chest.

"What a day... "

"Mum?" Karen's head poked back around the doorway, smiling awkwardly. "I wanted to ask you... I made a new friend at school today."

"That's nice, dear." Kirsten sighed, putting the doll back on the table.

"I was just wondering... I mean, I know since Dad..." She trailed off as she watched her mother tense, before trying again. "Could he come over for dinner some time? My new friend, I mean?"

There was a long pause.

"We'll see."

"But..."

"We'll see. Now good night."

Karen knew when to pick her battles, and slipped back upstairs. Kristen debated whether she had the energy to walk all the way up to bed.

"Tiffany."

_No._

"Come on, Tiff..."

_No. Go away._

"Tiff... it's not like you have a choice here."

The room was dark. It was her old kitchen, or, at least, it looked like it.

The colours were different, though, everything seemed to be going through a blue filter.

Jennifer gasped. There, hanging above the table by her neck was the Tiffany doll. She swung slightly, forward and backwards, as if caught in a breeze.

Behind her. There was a sound, something like footsteps behind her. She spun around, but saw nothing except the kitchen counter. She turned back, a little shaken. Her black hair clung to her face as she felt herself uncomfortably cold and wet.

The rope began to creak as she swung.

There was silence.

She tried the door. It was locked. The window was locked, too. Here she was, stuck in her own kitchen, with..._ well_, she thought. _In a perverse sort of way, you're stuck in here with your own corpse..._

She looked up at the doll. There was still an axe wound in her head, although make-up had covered most of it. That had been done when she hadn't minded keeping the doll around the house. Before their first near run-in with...

_Even in your head, you can't say his name._

Something about the way the doll swung through the smoky blue haze made her look... intriguing. Carefully, scraping the wet strands of hair out of her face with one hand, Jennifer stepped closer to the doll.

With a sudden start, the Tiffany doll was alive, screaming, flailing, clutching at the rope that tied around her neck, struggling desperately to get at Jennifer. Jennifer, for her part, screamed and backed away as the doll continued to struggle like a wild animal, face contorted in fury.

Jennifer woke with a start, the black, cool night calmly enveloping her as she struggled to breathe. Neil blinked awake beside her and stroked her arm, gently.

"Jennifer?"

She took a deep breath.

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"I'm... I'm Ok. It was a nightmare." She gasped a little, feeling herself cool and her heart slow to it's normal pace.

"You don't normally get nightmares..."

"No. I'm sure it's just a one off. I'm fine." She looked down at Neil, who did not look convinced. "I'm fine."

"Sure you don't want to talk about anything?"

There wasn't a therapist in the world who could be trusted with the sorts of secrets this family had. They had gotten through their problems leaning on each other, and for their own safety, that's how it had to stay. Jennifer knew Neil wasn't buying that she was fine, not for a second. What's more, Neil knew she understood that. But she couldn't feel comfortable unloading her problems onto him, not while she still felt responsible for his ending up in a wheel chair. Neil sighed, rubbing his eyes.

"Please, Jennifer. I know you've got a past. I know you've done things that you're not proud of. But I want us to work through this together."

"I know." She blinked back tears.

"I'm not going to go off trying to look up facts about who you were. I'm not going to judge you based on someone you've left behind. Just... talk to me."

He wasn't angry. His tone was weary, exhausted... but loving. He rested a hand on her arm, and she instantly felt her skin tingle under his touch.

"I will." She resolved her features into something of a happier smile. "I can't... not yet, but... I will."

They shared a brief, tired smile, and a kiss, before settling back down to sleep.

Down the hall, Glen was also sleeping. It was a deep and dreamless sleep, the kind of relaxation he had not had in some time.

The whole house lay nested in contended silence, if only for a few brief hours.

The only sorts of establishments open at two a.m. are the kind that are most definitely unsuitable for children, which is unsurprising and not a problem for most, as few children are up and about at that time. There are occasions where one must wonder whether the children's' bedtimes dictated these late opening hours, or whether it was the other way round, but this was no such occasion.

"Last call." The barman was a large, rounded figure, composed of wasted muscle, grime and ink, and he blended perfectly with the dim, grubby surroundings. He needn't have yelled it so much.

There were four customers still in the bar, one very near unconscious in front of him, two enjoying the floor show, and one off in a drunken stupor version of seventh heaven, in the private rooms at the back.

Two girls dressed in a very small amount of black leather and lace gyrated and pulsated on the stage in front of the two customers. They had never wanted this job. The blonde was named Estelle, and had wanted to be an actress. The brunette was called Christine, and had taken it up to fund one of her more expensive habits. She'd since kicked the habit, as the manager had pointed out that no one wanted to see Skeletor's bitch cousin do a strip-tease, but she couldn't kick the job.

In the private room, the fourth customer was completely failing to enjoy his lap dance. This may have been to do with the fact that he couldn't really afford it, or that the stripper looked very much like his niece Shandi. It may have been to do with the fact that he was married, and in town on business, so his wife had no way of knowing what he was doing, or the fact that he had earlier in the evening bought some pills from another customer, and they were currently disagreeing with him.

The stripper, whose name was, in fact, Clara, didn't particularly care. She just wanted to do the job she was paid for and go home.

The other reason neither of them were enjoying themselves was the one that they both refused to acknowledge. They both had the uncomfortable feeling that they were being watched.

The fourth customer said he'd had enough, nervously thanked her for her time, and staggered back to his hotel room. The other three customers were ejected, and the girls slunk back to the changing rooms. When Clara mentioned to Christine and Estelle about this unshakeable feeling of being watched, they said (in not so many words) that if she didn't like being watched, she was in the wrong profession. They said their goodbyes and went home, now dressed somewhat more modestly, in that they were dressed at all.

Most women would be scared by the thought of walking home on their own at 3 a.m. Clara had been doing it for about two years now, and her apartment was barely ten minutes walk from the bar.

She walked, her heels clacking on the pavement, still trying to push back the creeping sensation that she wasn't alone.

Something moved in the alley to her right.

"Hello?"

No response.

She was imagining things.

She went to walk away, but something moved again, knocking a few boxes over.

"Who's there? I'm armed, don't try anything..."

The small movement in the alley continued. Perhaps it was a cat, or a dog? Cautiously, she edged towards the movement, catching sight of what might have been a tail. It was hard to see in the dim light, but the little tuft of ginger hair bobbed just around the edge of the box.

"Come on out... I'm not going to hurt you..."

She carefully reached out, moving the box away so she could see the cat she was sure was hidden behind it, scared and lonely.

What she saw behind the box was not a cat.

What she saw behind the box made her freeze for a second, before dropping the box and screaming.

The doll, made of mutilated, Frankenstein's monster-like plastic, grinned up at her with a cocky sneer.

"Promise?"

She felt a stabbing pain in the back of her legs, and the uncomfortable pulsing of warm blood as it instantly stuck to her jeans. She suddenly found herself unable to stand up, and stopped screaming as she fell to the floor, hitting her head on the hard ground.

Glenda, who had been stood behind the young woman, wiped the blood against the thigh of her jeans.

"Sorry about getting your nice clothes dirty... if you'd just walked away, you probably could have lived."

"Sorry kid. Believe me; it kills me to mess up a body like yours." The doll towered over her from her semi-conscious position, before bringing the knife in his hand down across her neck in one swift movement. She choked and spluttered for a few moments, silent sobs contorting her face, before the life slowly left her eyes.

There was a pause for a moment, the dim street lights flickering around them.

"Shame." The gravelly voice reverberated slightly around the alley, and would have scared people, were they around to hear it. "She really had promise... eh, well. Glenda, get her purse."

Glenda jumped into action, reaching forward and looking in Clara's small purse, finding a set of keys and a wallet. She held them up for him to see, grinning when he nodded approval, and handed them over to him.

"Well, at least we got a new place to stay. Come on, let's go find this place."

He wiped his knife on his dungarees, and set off down the street. Glenda followed happily after him.

"Are we ever going back to that bar, Daddy?"

"No. The main talent's dead, she was the only one I liked."

"I liked the other girls, the ones with the pretty outfits."

"Yeah... maybe in future, I shouldn't take you along to these places."

"But you said I couldn't be trusted on my own."

"I did, didn't I?"

As they continued down the street, Chucky sighed. It was difficult, being a single parent to a nine year old with insomnia and holding down a profession.


	4. Chapter 4

Charles Lee Ray had never had dreams.

This statement is not to be confused with the idea of aspirations; he'd never put too much stock in them either, but those he had, he'd either achieved or given up on long ago.

This statement is in reference to the fact that Charles Lee Ray had never managed to sleep deep enough to reach the point of R.E.M, or if he had managed to dream, he couldn't remember doing so when he woke the next morning.

Now, as he looked up at the ceiling, glad that his insomniac daughter had finally fallen asleep, he determined that it was a good thing.

Sleeping and dreaming are luxuries, for those that don't live such a cut-throat existence as him. He'd never had a point in his life when someone wasn't trying to kill him or arrest him, so being a light sleeper paid off.

He stared up at the ceiling of the dead stripper's apartment, eyes narrowed. Something wasn't right.

The apartment itself was fine enough; bare, and composed of odds and ends. He had guessed that the stripper was living from one paycheque to the next, finding ways to make do if she couldn't afford something. Admirable enough, and sensible too. He almost felt bad for killing her. Almost.

It wasn't the apartment that was unsettling him, though.

It wasn't the stripper's bed, which was a little smaller than a double, and stiff, but he'd slept in worse.

It wasn't that he'd left Glenda to sleep on the couch. They normally took it in turns to sleep on either the bed or the couch, so her comfort wasn't an issue, and her safety wasn't a concern either. If there was one kid who could take care of herself, it was Glenda.

She was getting better, lately. More focused. More attentive. He'd been training her, and she was a good student, when she didn't have her head in the clouds. The one problem with teaching her was that it was near impossible to predict how she'd react to something, or figure out how her mind worked. At times, she ran parallel to reality.

Still, he could always put her back in line, no problem. A quick threat, a suggestion of the consequences of her actions, and she'd be his loyal gundog once more.

But right now, as he stared up at the ceiling, the room wrapped in darkness and silence, it wasn't Glenda that was unsettling him.

_Voodoo._

It had been a good few years since he'd actually used the majority of his knowledge of Voodoo, content to just use the Soul transfer spell and leave it at that. But Glenda had asked to be taught it, and he had thought it would probably be a good thing for her to know. But it took practice, and you couldn't start off that big. So he had gone back through what he could remember of his training, and taught her as best he could.

He had forgotten how powerful it made you feel.

He had forgotten how connected it made you feel.

When John had taught him the whole faith, he had described what he called a "cosmic empathy". He had said that it was possible to tap into a sort of universal map of everyone's spirits and souls.

At the time, Chucky had thought it was complete bull, but had gone along with it because John was a powerful adversary. But now...

He could sense it. If he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could feel Glenda, in the next room. He could feel the people in the apartments above and below. He could feel the people in the next building, the next street... He could push himself as far as the boundaries of the city before he had to stop, feeling too exhausted.

But someone, out there, was wrong.

There was... he tried to work it into words in his mind, but found it difficult.

It was as if everyone else was joined together in a sort of spider-web. They were all part of an overall pattern. But there was someone out there who was... different. They didn't join up like everyone else. They were almost separate, but not quite. A loose thread.

That's why they were here now. They'd tried leaving L.A, after that whole disastrous attempt on Glen and Tiffany's lives. But they'd come back, because he knew that someone wasn't right. He had a feeling he knew who it was, and he felt inexplicably compelled to find them.

"I'll trade you my apple for your grapes."

"Sure."

Glen and Karen were once again eating lunch together, comparing what they had each brought with them. Their mothers both meant well, but neither of them had actually packed what their children liked, causing a now daily trade-off.

"How's your arm?"

"It's good." Karen smiled, her mouse-brown hair bobbing in its pony-tail. "The cast will be coming off at the weekend."

"That's great." Glen smiled. He was happy to have met Karen, they both got on very well and seemed to have an unspoken understanding of what you shouldn't mention around each other.

"What about you, are you still feeling ill?"

"No, I'm much better. I've been sleeping just fine."

"Cool."

"Karen?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you... If my Mum said it's ok, would you want to come round for dinner some time?"

"Sure!" Karen grinned. "Tell you what, I'll give you my phone number, and we can sort something out."

"Great." Glen was ecstatic. If his mother saw that he was making friends, maybe she'd relax a little. She worried a lot, lately. About everything. He could see she was getting ill from the worry, but Neil had said that all they could do was try to make her see that she had nothing to worry about. The more she worried, the more he worried about her. He realised Karen was waggling a piece of paper under his nose, and he blushed, taking it from her.

"Sorry... I was just... thinking about stuff."

"You do that a lot, don't you?" She smiled, rolling her eyes and taking a bite out of her apple. "Got any homework you need help with?"

Jennifer stood in the kitchen, the radio playing merrily in the background, chopping vegetables. Her eyes flicked from the knife to the window, unable to concentrate.

Cooking a family meal was, in her opinion, one of the few good things Tiffany had brought to the life of Jennifer. Jennifer had rarely cooked meals, even for herself. Tiffany, conversely, felt cooking was an essential part of family life.

She watched the clean metal of the knife slide cleanly through the flesh of the carrots and courgettes, effortless and merciless as it glinted in the electric light.

It had been so long since she'd held a knife to someone's throat and felt the blood seep over her fingers... it had been so long since she'd seen the life fade from someone's eyes by her hand...

Of course, she was still devastated by the death of Glenda, and horrified by the return and consequent death of Chucky, but at the time she had been too panicked to really take any of it in. Now, it felt as if that long dormant killer instinct, which had been repressed and sublimated into dealing with agents, negotiating prices, and generally being a Hollywood star had woken once more.

The sound of the front door closing reverberated through the house, causing her to jump and cut her finger.

"Shoot." She muttered, and instantly sucked the blood from her cut, not fully listening as Glen walked through to her, talking excitedly about what happened at school.

"... which was fine, until Miss Bloom said... mummy, are you ok?"

"I'm fine, sweetface, I just cut myself. Give me a kiss."

Glen stood on tiptoe to kiss her cheek, and she hugged him.

"Mum, can I invite a friend round for dinner?"

"Well..." Jennifer struggled to play it cool, and not break into a fit of adoring cooing. "Of course, honey. Let's see, I'm going to be in a meeting with my agent on Wednesday, and Neil's at physiotherapy on Thursday, but your friend can come around on Friday after school."

"Brilliant." Glen smiled, before dumping his pack on the kitchen table and removing a few books. "I'll do my homework now, and then I can help with dinner."

"You're an angel, sweetie."

She smiled, and resumed cooking, feeling a little shaken, but managed to calm herself.

_This is my life now. This is who I am._

"Could you pass the salad, please?"

"Here."

"Thank you. Karen, is everything ok?"

"Yes, fine, thanks." Karen sat at the Tillys' dining room table, happily eating Jennifer's Swedish meatballs and spaghetti. She wore a smart, neat black t-shirt and camo patterned Capri pants, her long hair tied back in a ponytail once more. Jennifer thought she looked like the cutest little tomboy she'd ever seen. "Thank you for having me."

"Oh, think nothing of it, sweetface, it's always nice to see Glen playing with his friends."

"Mum!"

"Glen, don't be silly..."

"You have a lovely home, Ms Tilly; it's a pleasure to be invited here."

"Karen." Neil smiled as Glen kept shooting his mother embarrassed, reproachful looks. "You are possibly one of the most polite young girls I've ever met. I think it's safe to say you'll be welcome here any time you like."

"Thank you, sir. My parents taught me to always respect my superiors."

Glen looked at Karen, unsure. She was different around adults to how she was when they were alone. She had explained that her parents had spent time in a military school, and her mom was a police officer and her dad had been in the army. Maybe that had something to do with it, he guessed.

They ate happily, discussing school and work, friends and food, and within the next two days, Karen had asked Glen if he wanted to visit her house after school on Monday. Glen had accepted happily, and Jennifer and Neil had felt a large weight removed from their shoulders as it seemed Glen was making a good friend.

Karen was just glad she had finally managed to talk her mother into allowing guests at the house, even if it was only for a few hours. As she sat on the couch with Andrew and Maggie, and Maggie held the angel-faced doll in her lap, all of them nodding quietly as her mother paced in front of them, reciting the house rules, she felt like her life had some small chance of regaining normality for the first time since her Dad had been shot dead in Afghanistan.


	5. Chapter 5

**As with canon, so with fanfic… let's breathe some life back into this story!**

Chucky sat on the cheap, faded rug that Clara… sweet, departedClara, thought Glenda, had probably picked up from a thrift store somewhere. A year ago, all she had thought about was the kill, the adrenaline rush. But now, she found something oddly fulfilling about the people. Their houses. Their clothes. Their habits. Since they'd been killing for roof, she'd gotten more and more interested in getting an idea about what that person was like. Her Dad complained, loudly, told her it was a waste of time going through their shit unless she was looking for stuff they could hock, but he let her have this little quirk.

Glenda thought she might have liked Clara. She was obviously kind of poor; all the furniture was second-hand, her clothes had the faint, musty trace of thrift store odour on them. But she liked pretty things. Flowers and butterflies were a recurring theme in everything she owned, and she had a sewing machine in one corner of the little one room apartment. She sewed, and made a few of her own clothes.

The rug, now Glenda returned her attention to it, had a few patches sewn on here and there, bright and colourful, and cut in the shape of stars. Chucky sat between two stars, underneath a window, facing the door. His eyes were closed, his brow knitted, his back straight. He breathed deeply, face twitching every now and then as he focused. Glenda was sat on the couch that slumped at the foot of the bed, her own fingers twitching (purely the result of forcing herself to stay still). She bounced nervously in her seat, watching Chucky's expression change microscopically.

"You're not focussing," Chucky growled, his voice making Glenda jump. He opened one eye, cutting her with a piercing blue glare. "You're not even trying."

"I did try," Glenda said, tucking her legs up underneath herself and staring back at him defiantly. "And then I stopped because nothing was happening and it was making my head ache."

"That's because you don't concentrate. Ever." Chucky pushed himself to his feet, stretched his arms out in front of him and rolled his head, loosening the stiff joints. "I swear, Glenda, you ever use that brain in there?"

Glenda looked at the floor, her shoulders tensing as she did. Chucky sighed, and headed for the door.

"Come on," he said, without looking back. Glenda pushed herself down from the couch.

"Where we going?"

"To get a little closer to our loose end."

(-*-)

The bell went, and Glen put his books in his pack, slower than the rest of the class. Everyone else was packed, had jackets on and was practically out the door by the time Glen had got to his feet. The teacher raised an eyebrow at him from where she sat at her desk. It was the same teacher who'd sent him to the nurse's office. The same teacher Glen had dreamt…

He shook the visions of the dream out of his head, dispelling the flashes of her blood caking in her face powder, her tight brown perm making her head bounce slightly as she hit the floor, her shirt slick with blood to her rounded, elderly form.

"Glen? Are you alright?"

Glen nodded, and started to head to the back of the room, where his jacket was hung over the radiator. It had been raining when he got in that morning.

"Tired." He managed to say. He'd been up again last night, pursued by more terrible nightmares. He shrugged his jacket on, feeling the warmth wrap around him and, for a moment, losing the tension that sat deep in his muscles.

"Glen!" The voice came from the doorway, and Glen whipped around, tense again. When he saw the mousey blonde ponytail and the wide, sporty smile though, he relaxed. Karen waved at him from where she leant in the doorway, looking somehow skinnier than normal.

"OH!" Glen grinned, grabbing his bag and jogging around the desks to get to her. "Your arm! The cast's off."

"Yeah, and now I'm ready to break another one." She grinned, stepping back as they walked out of class together. "Sorry I couldn't see you at lunch, had a ton of late homework to catch up on. You alright

"Yeah," Glen said, as they marched out of the doors and into the gleaming sunshine. He gave a weary sigh. "Tired. Bad dreams again."

"Aw, no." Karen tutted sympathetically. "That sucks. Well, we'll walk back to mine, you can experience casa del chaos, and you'll be ready to pass out by the time you get back home."

She smiled at him, hitched her pack higher up her shoulder, and punched him on the arm.

"C'mon."

They walked just behind the crowd of kids, who slowly dispersed into buses and cars, some walking off down separate streets. The sun really was bright today, or maybe Glen's eyes were just sore from lack of sleep. Karen laughed and chatted about nothing in particular, telling Glen all about the funny thing that happened in Chemistry that morning and why she was angry at her brother because he'd eaten the last Pop Tart.

Karen was lively, and happy. Glen wondered if the rest of her family would be like her.

He wondered if this was what 'normal' looked like.

After the tension at home, the fake smiles between his mother and Neil, the dark bags that were forming under everyone's eyes… Karen was like a soda, lively, bubbling, refreshing.

She got to the end of her story and smiled at Glen, waiting for a response from him. He smiled, and she rolled her eyes.

"You weren't listening at all, were you?"

"No," Glen admitted, and then began to laugh. Karen laughed too, and they rounded a corner into a suburban street, with roomy colonial houses sat happily next to each other, their clapboards basking in the sun.

As they walked past one house, Glen stopped dead, staring at a tree in the yard.

"What?" Karen stopped alongside him, trying to see what he was looking at.

Glen stared, not taking his eyes off the shadowy space between the tree and the box hedges behind it.

"Glen?

"Nothing," Glen said, after a while. He shook his head, blinked a couple of times, and looked back at the shadowy space. Nothing. There was nothing there. His brain was playing tricks on him. "I thought I saw something."

He flashed Karen a smile and they continued down the street. What Glen had seen, or, thought he saw, was a figure, about three and a half feet tall, standing in the shadow of the tree, the sun shining off of the plastic the figure had for skin. It had been too dark to see colours, or even any definite shapes.

He had blinked, and by the time he'd looked again, the figure had disappeared. He was imagining things. His brain wasn't working right.

Glen and Karen approached one of the colonial houses, with powder blue clapboard and a rather weed-ridden yard. A black and white police car sat in the drive. Karen pulled a door key out of her pocket and let them in.

"Who goes there?" A voice barked from deeper within the house. Karen laughed as she stood aside to let Glen in, kicking off her shoes and hanging her bag and jacket on the rack by the door.

"Private First Class Karen Barclay Ma'am." She fake saluted. "With new recruit." She rolled her eyes at Glen, as a tall, strong woman walked through from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dishcloth. The house was light and clean, and very, very orderly. Glen thought that Karen had a weird definition of chaos.

The woman held her hand out to Glen, and Glen saw a network of thin scars, clean, trimmed, unpolished nails. Karen's mother was nothing like his, and somehow that was unsettling and reassuring all at once. He shook the offered hand.

"Lieutenant Kristen Barclay." She spoke with a pleasant, if slightly tired smile.

"Glen Tilly. It's lovely to meet you, Mrs Barclay. Or, uh, Lieutenant…"

"Call me Kirsten." She said, before walking back through to the kitchen. "You kids want some drinks? Dinner's not ready yet."

They followed Kirsten through to the kitchen, and Glen relaxed a little.

Outside, plastic hands picked at the bark of the tree their owner hid behind, wondering if Glen had seen them.


End file.
